The Invisible G

Sometimes, in the middle of a  

conversation, someone will wedge  

a g where it doesn’t belong—  

like planting a blade of grass  

in the wrong crack of pavement.  

Stronger becomes strong-ger, longer  

becomes long-er-er. And I pause,  

hold it like a stone in my mouth.  

Do they not feel it? The syntax  

pinching itself uncomfortable, the  

extra syllable a stumbling toe  

on language's clean hardwood floor?  

I wonder if they think it’s clever—  

a secret handshake only they know,  

but every word said this way  

feels like a snag, a bruise.  

I don’t correct them anymore;  

my silence is a softer place  

than the sharp edge of grammar,  

though every added g still grates.